A Visitor

Harry sets down the phone sadly, the dial tone still ringing in his ears. "Bye," he murmurs, and then takes a deep, calming breath. With the phone returned to its cradle, he feels better. He surveys the apartment, the rows of neat things, the life he's made, created from chaos and regulated into an every-day sort of order. He runs a hand through his hair, and crosses the room to his couch. Though it's still early on Sunday, barely past one, he feels exhausted, drained, and quickly sinks into a much-needed rest.
He awakes to a thud. His eyes opening quickly, he sits bolt upright, and gasps. The room is in complete disarray. Not only have things been tossed haphazardly everywhere, but furniture has been moved, jostled out of their places and shifted, even the heaviest of items. The table before the couch is now propped against the wall, and in fact the only thing on the rug before him is the phone, its receiver still in the cradle.
Harry stands quickly and goes to the door. He tries the bolt, and finds it secure. A quick survey tells him that the windows are all locked from the inside, though someone would have a hard time getting to one of them even if they weren't. He stands in the middle of the room, and his gaze once again falls to the telephone. He reaches to pick it up, and it rings just as his hand closes on it. He drops it again out of sheer terror, and then answers it, curiousity getting the better of him.
"Harry?"
"Dean."
"Look... I didn't mean that. I'm sorry I hung up. I'm not really sure what just happened, but I feel so strange, as if someone told me to call you. Is there something.... I don't know. Maybe this was a bad idea."
Harry surveys the room again, and then replies, "No, nothing's wrong. I'm so glad you called back, though."